Good Enough
by JLaLa
Summary: "Nine years alone in our little attic home. How could something not happen?" Peeta and Katniss grow together under strange circumstances. Based very slightly off V.C. Andrews', "Flowers in the Attic". Day Two prompt for Tumblr's Prompts in Panem 'Farewell Tour'.


**The characters of The Hunger Games Trilogy do not belong to me.**

 ** _Trigger Warnings: instances of kidnapping, child abuse, sexual assault, rape, and pedophilia._**

Good Enough

I was seven when Cray took me.

Maybe it was my fault.

The memory has slowly faded over time but I remember being in a crowded mall. My mom was trying to find shoes for my little sister when I felt the grasp of his hand. He led me away quickly and before I knew it, I was sitting in his car with my feet swinging above the floor.

Cray gave me ice cream and I contentedly licked the rum raisin that dripped along my fingers and onto my pink dress. He didn't yell like my mom would whenever I got my clothes dirty so I remember the relief of not being punished.

I didn't realize that my punishments would come much later.

I thought nothing of it when we stopped along the sidewalk next to the rundown Victorian house. Nor did I worry when he led me up the never-ending flights of stairs. It got darker each flight we ascended so I just clung to Cray's hand. It seemed to please him.

It was only when I saw Peeta for the first time that I became frightened.

He didn't appear scary, but the look in his shrinking blue eyes was. His blond hair was dirty and matted and he look emaciated in his oversized t-shirt.

"Look, boy." Cray pushed me into the room. "I got you a sister."

Then, he closed the door behind him.

* * *

"What's your name?" Peeta asked as I stood awkwardly by the door. My eyes looked to the large stains on my dress and I suddenly wished that my mom was there. Even if she got upset, Mom would eventually clean me up before giving me a kiss and sending me off with fresh clothing.

"Katniss," I managed to mumble. I eyed the boy in front of me curiously. "What's your name?"

"Peeta." He smiled kindly and I could see that a tooth was growing on the bottom front of his mouth. "How old are you?"

"I'm seven." My eyes looked anxiously to the door. "How long are we going to be up here?"

"Until we're good enough," he told me. "I'm eight."

I started to feel nervous as Peeta led me further into the room. There were two beds, both neatly made with a table separating them. To the right was a small television and a shelf with a few books. Then, to the left was a large armoire and a door which I learned later on was the bathroom.

"Peeta, when is the man coming back?" I asked timidly.

He shrugged, almost confused as to why I had asked him this particular question. "Maybe tonight."

Something broke inside of me and I found myself crying into my hands.

I wanted to go home. I wanted my Mommy and little sister whose name I couldn't remember.

"It's okay." Peeta led me over to one of the beds before sitting beside me. "It's better that he doesn't come."

I looked at him through my burning wet eyes. "Why?"

The scary look in his eyes returned.

* * *

Peeta taught me to count the sunsets.

Fourteen sunsets happened before Cray came for me. By then, I had learned our routine well.

Every morning, the man who Peeta told me was Cray, would come and drop off our food rations. He didn't talk to us, only leaving the brown box by the door before quickly closing and locking it. There were six paper bags inside, three for me and three for Peeta, consisting of our breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Breakfast was usually fruit and a small carton of milk. Lunch was a sandwich with luncheon meat, and dinner was always some sort of meat and powdered mashed potatoes.

By then, I no longer wore my pretty pink dress. Cray had taken it to be 'cleaned' so I was now wearing a plain white t-shirt similar to Peeta's.

I also learned by then that Peeta didn't remember his family. His only memory was a floured apron and the smell of sugar. He wasn't sure but he thought that it might have been a memory of his dad.

Peeta was riding his bike when Cray had told him that he was a friend who would drive him back home.

We were such trusting children.

That night, Peeta had fallen asleep before me.

That night when I awoke, it was because I wasn't in my bed anymore.

I was in Cray's.

I was in Cray's bed as he ran his hand along my bare skin…along my shoulders…my stomach…and between my thighs.

It hurt.

Ten. Ten times that Cray put his fingers in me before he shuddered and groaned into my ear.

When I woke up, I was back in my bed in the attic with Peeta sitting by my side.

The look in his eyes broke me. He understood because the same thing had happened to him.

I burst into tears and he lay beside me, his hand moving along my dark hair.

Peeta waited until I was calm before leading me to the bathroom. He filled the tub with warm water before helping me remove my shirt and letting me sit in the water.

"Did this happen because we weren't good enough?" I asked him as he washed my back.

"No," he told me, the look in his blue eyes lost. "It's because he's done something bad."

* * *

 _Five Years Later…_

I'm twelve today.

Today, along with our usual meal box, was a small cake that read, ' _Happy Birthday Katniss_ '.

Cray has gotten us one every year since I came to stay in the attic. He tells Peeta and me that he wants us to be a normal family and that he's trying hard to find us a good mother.

Unfortunately, Cray doesn't bring home women that are mother material.

We can see them walking up the driveway, full of liquor and laughter, from the small round window in our room. The last woman wore a tight, red dress that briefly reminded me of my own dress—I wondered what became of it. My new uniform was a t-shirt and a pair of leggings while Peeta now wore sweat pants.

"Happy birthday, sis." Peeta gives me a kiss on the cheek in greeting and I blush at the motion.

Taking the cake, he begins to slice it with the plastic knife that we've been supplied with. I watch him look at the cake and I know that he's thinking of his family. From what we can put together, his father was a baker in a small mom-and-pop bakery.

I don't remember much about my own life except that my mother and sister were blondes.

That's about it.

My hand reaches across the table to gives his a squeeze. "I bet you could make a better one."

Peeta grins at me and I feel something flutter inside my stomach.

The feeling is unfamiliar but not unwelcomed.

We eat our cake in silence, enjoying the small bits of strawberries against our tongues. When we finish, I gather our small dishes and bring them to the bathroom sink to wash. We were given chores when I turned ten. I am in charge of washing—clothes, sheets, and dishes. Peeta is in charge of sweeping, dusting, and maintaining any electronics like our old television which only has channels 2 and 4.

Being twelve has been very strange on me. I feel different, at the brink of something that I know nothing about. There are strange feelings building up inside me; some happy, some sad. My body looks different, too. My chest is budding out and there is hair growing in weird places.

I'm so distracted that I don't even notice the sink overflowing. "Damn!"

My shirt is soaked and I quickly shut the sink off so I can clean the water on the floor.

Peeta comes rushing in. "What's wrong?"

I turn to him in panic. "I got water everywhere! Help me clean it up before Cray sees!"

Cray hates a mess. We were punished the last time we made one. I couldn't sit down for a week and Peeta had to sleep on his stomach.

Though he rewards us sometimes, Cray also punishes…badly.

"G-Go and change," Peeta stammers, his eyes wide. "I'll clean up."

"But, it was my fault—"

"Just go and change, Katniss!" He looks me over once more. "Don't let Cray see you like that."

I walk out of the room and go to the armoire to grab a fresh shirt. It's only when I see myself in the mirror inside of it do I realize why Peeta was so flustered. The shirt is completely see-through when it's wet—two dark, puckered nipples peek through the thin cloth.

Looking into my eyes in the mirror, my mind recalls the look on Peeta's face seeing me in the bathroom.

His blue eyes were blazing and there was an unknown intensity inside them as he looked at my newly-grown chest.

I think it was hunger.

* * *

Five.

It takes five minutes of rubbing against me for Cray to finish. He doesn't say anything after, simply taking me by the arm and leading me upstairs before locking the door behind him.

Peeta sits up in his bed when he is sure that Cray is gone. It took us a year to realize that he was drugging our food. We learned to detect the bits of powder that were sleeping inhibitors in our sandwiches or powdered potatoes.

"Are you okay?" he asks as I go to the armoire to change my clothes.

"I'm fine," I tell him. Taking my shirt off, I quickly throw another one on. "He was quick."

"Getting old," Peeta responds with a smile.

I go to my bed and peel back the covers. "I don't understand what he gets out of this."

"It must feel good to him, I guess." Peeta goes under his own covers, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Does he act different when he's with you?" I ask suddenly before clapping my mouth shut. After a moment, I speak again. "Peeta, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Peeta responds off-handedly. "It's quick for me, too."

He never talks about the times when he has to go with Cray.

"Don't be mad." I jump out of bed and crawl into his to give him a hug, my head going to his chest. "I know that you don't like to discuss it."

"It's okay," Peeta replies, his voice cracking at its ends. "I pretend that I'm doing something else."

"Like what?"

He turns to look at me. "I do math problems in my head or I count the cracks in the ceiling."

I'm suddenly aware of how close we are and I can feel a tingling inside of me.

Staring up at him, I clear my throat before speaking. "Do you think it would be different if we wanted it?"

Peeta swallows slowly, his slight Adam's apple bobbing. "Maybe."

My hand takes hold of his and I move it to one of my small buds. "I saw you looking at them."

"Katniss…" His voice is thick, full of torturous want. I guide his hand to caress me. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know." My eyes close as his hand begins to move on its own. "But, I know I want it."

* * *

I can't even react when I'm thrown to the ground.

"You two are sick!" Cray is screaming at both of us from where he stands. "You are brother and sister! Nothing else!"

It's at the tip of my tongue to say that God didn't make us brother and sister. He did.

The jingle of his belt buckle brings a cold, frightened sensation rushing through my spine.

"It was my fault!" Peeta suddenly bursts out. His eyes meet mine and I see his glazing over, preparing for punishment. "I asked her to come into the bed."

"You think that you're brave, boy?" Cray sneers, his dark eyes wild. "Kneel in front of me so Katniss can see how brave you are. Shirt off."

I want to protest but Peeta turns to me and shakes his head just barely. If I get punished then things will be worse. The last time we really got in trouble, we could barely walk and that was only because of a mess we made in the bathroom.

Peeta removes his shirt and I'm surprised how he has changed, much like myself. His shoulders are broad and his biceps are well-formed. He has a long torso showcasing just how tall he's become, nearly matching Cray's height.

Kneeling before Cray, Peeta crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

I hold my breath as Cray circles my friend. There's a strange, sadistic light in our keeper's eyes as he looks over Peeta.

"How old are you, boy?" Cray asks.

"Thirteen, sir," comes Peeta's even reply.

"Katniss." I look up at Cray when he calls. "Count to thirteen."

My mouth goes dry at his command and I look to Peeta in helpless anger.

My friend nods imperceptibly; he wants me to listen. Because if we don't, things will only get worse.

"One," I start after a moment.

The first strike to Peeta's back comes swiftly and a cry nearly escapes my mouth. Cray looks to me, his eyes blank. He is in punishment mode now and awaits the rest of my count.

"Two…" I continue and there is another hard, harsh lash to Peeta's skin. I can almost feel the belt slice through him. "Three…four…five…" The punishment continues but there is no crying or shouting coming from Peeta, just grunts of acknowledgment that he is feeling the pain.

By twelve, I'm sick to my stomach and Peeta is practically head down to the floor.

"Thirteen," I announce finally—and the last strike comes down hard onto Peeta's shoulders causing him to collapse onto the ground.

I wait as Cray puts his belt back onto the loops of his khaki pants. He looks over at me, his eyes still blank.

"No food tomorrow for both of you," he says breathlessly and I see the rising in the front of his pants.

The sight of it makes me want to vomit.

I wait for him to leave before rushing over to Peeta. "Let's get you to the tub."

Peeta shakes his head, his blue eyes still watering from the pain. "I-I can do it!"

"Stop being stubborn," I respond with a glare. Going to the ground, I find the strength to put his arm over my shoulders, wrapping my own arm just below his bloodied back. "I'm going to stand us up now. One…two…three!"

I struggle but I pull him up quickly and only then does Peeta cry out.

"I'm sorry," Peeta tells me. "Don't be scared."

"Why should I be scared?" I ask as we make our way to the bathroom. "It's only a natural process to feel pain."

He manages to smile at me. "Where did you learn that?"

"Channel 4 has health lectures on Mondays." I push open the door of the bathroom with my foot before having him sit down on the closed lid of the toilet. I go to the tub and begin to fill it with water. "How else would I learn about my period?"

"Do you think that you'll have it?" Peeta asks as he sits hunched down, his hands resting on his thighs.

"Maybe in a year or so," I reply. Steam begins to fill the room and I look to him. "Can you stand?"

Peeta nods and gingerly stands up. Going to him, I begin to help Peeta remove his sweatpants. He doesn't protest, still weak from the beating, as I slide them down to his ankles before helping his feet out from the leg openings, nor does he say anything when I remove his plain white briefs.

It's nothing I haven't seen before.

Though it's the first time that I've wanted to touch one.

Carefully, I help him into the tub and he hisses when the water hits his marred skin. The water begins to turn red and I quickly grab the pitcher under the sink to pour water on his back.

"Sorry," I tell him helplessly. "We need to make sure that they're clean or you'll get an infection."

Peeta gives me a pained smile. "Did you learn that from Channel 4?"

"No." I shake my head distractedly. "From my mother." I stop in place at the long-buried information. "I think she was a nurse."

"Funny what people remember at certain times," he remarks suddenly. I continue to pour water on his back until all the excess blood is washed away. The bleeding has stopped, but the welts are now bright red and swollen. Peeta looks to me. "I don't regret what we did."

I shake my head, tears filling my eyes. "Neither do I." I look down at the bruised skin in front of me. "Do you think we're good enough, Peeta? Good enough to be set free?"

"I always thought we were," he replies. "We just have to become smart enough to figure out how."

He reaches forward to wrap his arms around my waist, his head pressed above my chest. My shirt is soaked once again but it doesn't bother me. However, the rapid beating of my heart and the expectant puffs of breath do.

Peeta doesn't look at me when his lips go to my puckered nipple to suckle. I don't respond only pulling him closer to me, my fingers wrapping into his damp hair.

"Mothers breastfeed their children in order to deepen the connection between mother and child," I abruptly say in a tight whisper. "I learned that from Channel 4."

I don't know why that came out of my mouth—maybe to justify the connection that I feel for Peeta as he moves his tongue along my clothed duct.

A thick laugh escapes him as he pulls away slightly to meet my eyes. "You're not my mother."

When he yanks at my shirt and brings his mouth to my now uncovered nipple, I'm suddenly grateful that I'm not.

* * *

 _Four Years Later…_

Nine years alone in our little attic home. How could something not happen?

We justify everything we have done with the thought that this is the only decision that is left to us. The decision to want and be wanted by someone.

With Cray, we remain the docile brother and sister. He never caught us in bed together after that one instance. It took time, but slowly he came to trust us once again.

However when we are alone, when Cray disappears to wherever he goes, Peeta and I are no longer brother and sister.

I easily fall into his strong arms and let my head rest against his now muscular chest.

We have slowly built up our strength over time by exercising. Peeta can do up to a hundred push-ups with me sitting on his back as dead weight. I limber up and lengthen my limbs with the morning yoga hour on Channel 2. For endurance, I jog in place for thirty minutes after our morning meal.

We never go further than small kisses or touches underneath the blankets. We both were each other's first real kisses, eager to copy how it looked on the Channel 4 evening movies. His mouth against mine sends currents of blazing electricity through my body and images of letting him move inside invade me.

I know I cannot.

Because Cray wants that part of me before anyone else and if he knew that Peeta was the one to do it…

I can't even fathom the thought.

"Peeta, your birthday is coming soon," I say to him, one evening. "What do you want for your birthday present?"

"What I always want," he responds, mirth in his sweet blue eyes. "Freedom…and you."

"You have me." I snuggle closer to him in my small bed to emphasize my point. "Always."

"I know, but I want it to be real." Peeta sighs against me. "I want to propose to you, marry you, and make babies with you…just like on television."

"When we're free then we will," I promise.

"When does that happen?" he counters tiredly.

In my head, I add up the money that we've stolen from Cray over the last few years. When he passes out at night, I search his pockets and find coins or dollars that he wouldn't miss. Peeta started to do the same and over time we collected a hefty sum of cash and small change.

"Your birthday," I declare as I press kisses to his neck. "My birthday present to you is our freedom."

* * *

The next time that I'm alone with Cray, I go to the bathroom to wash up. He now trusts me enough to do these small things and doesn't even bat an eyelash when I escape his nauseating embrace to take a bathroom break.

I gather my clothes, stuffing small bits of change into the pockets that I've sewn into my leggings before my hands feel for the small key chain along his discarded clothes. Finding it in the back pocket of his khakis, I go to the bathroom and close the door behind me.

Peeta gave me a piece of hard clay that we used to play with as children. Reaching into another hidden pocket of leggings, I grabbed the red clay and push the key into it to make a clear indentation. It is too risky to steal the original so we attempted to make a new one.

After I'm finished, I get dressed and step back into the room where Cray half-naps. Quickly returning the key to his pocket, I sit on the bed just enough to wake him up.

"It's time for me to go back," I tell him and Cray tiredly nods. He has been drinking and it makes him slower. I contemplate almost finding a way to get rid of him right then and there.

Then, I realize that he needs to be punished for what he's done—by both me and Peeta.

Together, we go back up to the attic and he doesn't say a word as I walk back into the room where Peeta pretends to sleep.

Once he hears the click of the lock, Peeta sits up before rushing over to me.

I give him a sad smile. "I'm fine. Just my hand and not my mouth."

He pulls me close and presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Better me than you."

My arms wrap around him. Cray has slowly been bringing himself closer to Peeta and what I can gather from the small bits that Peeta reveals, our 'father' is a lot more aggressive with him.

Reaching into my hidden pocket, I pull out the clay impression of Cray's key. "My first present to you."

Peeta looks down at the red piece of freedom in my hand. Gently, he takes the clay and places it in our hiding place—a small tin hidden in our old toys.

Returning to me, his hands go to my shoulders and move along my upper arms to warm my chilled skin. A deathly coldness happens every time that I am with Cray and every time, Peeta brings me back to life.

Leading me to the bathroom, he turns on the water and then moves to face me silently. Slowly Peeta undresses me, piece by piece, as the small room fills with steam. I allow him, knowing that this is the only way we can show affection, by taking care of one another in small ways.

When the tub is half-full, he helps me into it and I sink down into the lulling water. He brings the pitcher out to pour water over my hair and down my back. I know that he is watching the trail of water move along my skin and into the curvatures of my body. I wash thoroughly, getting every little bit of Cray off before laying against the back of the tub.

"Do you think we can do it?" I ask quietly.

Peeta pulls up a small stool that we used when we needed to reach for things on the higher shelves of the attic. We have long grown out of that phase as Peeta is now taller and much stronger than Cray. I am the same height as Cray but if I had to, I don't know if I could overpower him.

I think that's what scares Peeta the most.

"Birch is strong wood," he replies simply. "It's what the shelves in the armoire are made of. I just need to break it apart."

"Then what?" I need to hear the words to reassure myself that it will work.

His hand dips into the tub to take hold of mine. "I'm good with whittling." I bring his hand to the flat of my abdomen. "I can memorize every crevice of that key, every nuance…" His hand travels into the water and in-between my thighs. "I can make it what I want."

His index and middle fingers move slowly into my sopping entrance and I arch up to take him all in.

I look into his darkening eyes and let out a slow exhale as he moves inside me. "I can make it mine."

And now, he's not talking about the wood.

Standing before him, I meet his eyes squarely, aware of the water running along my body and between my pert breasts for him to admire.

Moving my mouth to his ear, I whisper, "I'm already yours."

Peeta hands me a towel and I wrap it around myself so he can scoop me out of the tub. My arms wrap around his neck and he brings us back to our little room—our little home that we created together. Laying me onto my mattress, Peeta dries me off gently and I close my eyes, relaxed in his touch.

My heart races as I feel his breath against me…along my neck…and next to the tip of my earlobe.

"I love you, Katniss," he whispers. "When we get out of here, will you marry me?"

His words, so soft and sweet, beat any romantic movie that we've seen.

Because they're real.

Slowly my eyes open and I sit up to give my answer.

I straddle his lap, my gaze never leaving his. Even as my hand reaches under the waistband of his sweatpants do my eyes remain on his.

I want to see his face when I give him my answer.

Peeta is ready for me, hot and thick in my hand.

When I sink onto him, my insides welcome him easily.

There is no pain; only love between us.

We are one.

* * *

Peeta's birthday comes sooner than we think.

Two pieces of birch have been taken from our armoire, cut with a small saw that was part of Peeta's whittling kit, a strange present he received from Cray on his fourteenth birthday. While Cray is gone for the day, I watch Peeta work away on making the proper indentations. He works little by little so he won't make mistakes.

I make him take frequent breaks to rest his eyes and head by tempting him with my embrace. We talk about what we want to do when we leave this prison. I want to become a nurse and of course, a mother. Peeta isn't sure what he wants, so we talk about his knack for painting and carpentry. He is smart and I don't have any doubts about his future.

"Katniss, do you think that we should find our families?" he asks on the evening before his birthday.

Putting down my plate, I place my hands on my lap to think for a moment. "I don't know." I meet his eyes and give him a hopeful smile. "I guess we can talk more about it if the key works."

There is a shuffle at the door and Cray walks in. His drunken eyes lock onto me and I stand up without a thought, giving my dish to Peeta before going to the door.

This is always how I am during these moments—non-reactive. Maybe it's my nature to be this way. Submissive. Even when I was taken, I had no initial reaction to this stranger leading me away from my family.

These thoughts echo in my head as Cray undresses me.

Submissive, docile, easy…

Dirty. Impure.

His fingers move inside my resistant flesh and I close my eyes to wait for that sickening groan to escape him.

When I get back to our room, Peeta is actually asleep.

His eyes only open as I get into my bed and wrap my sheets around my numb body.

I meet his eyes. "No."

Peeta nods in understanding. "We can't come back from this."

Even if we were to find our families, it would not be the same.

We are strangers.

The children they knew are dead, murdered by a stranger's perversion and buried along with their innocence.

* * *

The key is finished.

I hold my breath as Peeta tests it out. Cray has gone to work, promising to return and celebrate Peeta's birthday. He seems almost joyful about this particular birthday even asking Peeta what kind of cake he wants.

Peeta turns the birch-crafted key slowly.

 _Click_.

He looks over at me in shock before a slow grin emerges on his lips. "It works."

I can't help but tackle him to the ground, my lips pressing to his urgently. "Happy birthday, Peeta."

We close the door quickly after we've made sure that the lock is secure and I reach to remove his clothing as he sheds my clothes off expertly. I stand before him naked and eager to feel him inside me. How could one man make me love and want him so eagerly?

Peeta is the only one who can draw these feelings out of me.

Our lovemaking is thorough, no skin left unkissed or untouched. Cray won't be home for hours and so we make good use of that time.

That day is the first time that I come undone with Peeta inside me; the first time that Peeta lets himself go, filling me with warmth.

There could be a baby.

But, if there is then that baby will be born in freedom—no matter what.

Cray returns in the evening and presents us with a strawberry cake with white icing and neat cursive that says ' _Happy Birthday'_. He's left it in the box instead of putting it on a cake stand like he usually does.

"Mellark Bakery," Peeta reads out loud and then looks to me. "We will stop by here and get a different kind of cake when we get out of here."

I nod in happiness as I remove the top icing where I see the slight sprinkle of powder.

* * *

Our plan was simple.

Peeta was to go to Cray to get his present. We are curious as Cray hasn't mentioned presents lately.

I pretend to be asleep when Cray comes to get Peeta. My hand is wrapped around the birch key; our two small bags are packed and lined with the cash that we have collected over the years. I wait for twenty minutes before going to the door and carefully turning the lock.

A breath of relief escapes me hearing that familiar click before placing the key back into my pocket.

Slowly, I walk down the stairs. My steps have always been light but I'm still careful to not make a sound as I descend into the second floor hallway where Cray's room is.

I'm to hold the whittling knife that rests in my other pocket to his neck. Peeta will overpower him since he is much stronger than Cray. Then, we will tie him up and escape our prison.

That _was_ our plan.

However, the sounds escaping the bedroom cause me to hurriedly move down the hallway.

Peeta never told me what Cray would do to him, only saying that he used his hands or his mouth just as I do.

What is happening now is new. Peeta lays on his stomach, sobbing into his pillow in pain as Cray sits astride him, moving roughly.

Peeta can sense that I'm near for he turns to look at the doorway and I can see the white-hot pain that he is going through.

I can practically feel it happening to me.

This is Cray's 'present'.

If we stayed, come next year—this will be me.

* * *

Even now, I can't remember what happened. This block of memory is nothing but darkness.

My eyes open to blood.

Blood on the walls…on the dirty sheets…all over my white shirt…spilling out of Cray.

"Katniss, stop." Peeta is holding my wrist and I look up to see the blood-stained knife still in my grasp. "You got him. It's done."

My throat constricts in realization. What did I do?

Dropping the knife, I fall to my knees.

I've murdered Cray.

"Katniss, get up." Peeta pulls me to my feet and wraps an arm around my waist. "You didn't do anything wrong."

I meet his eyes in terror. "They'll find me. The police will find me…"

A gasp escapes from Cray and I lurch back at the motion.

Peeta doesn't hesitate when he grabs the knife. Quickly, he wipes the handle and then turns Cray around.

His grey eyes barely open to see us in front of him.

Let him see what he made us. Emotionless. Brutal. Merciless.

Peeta takes the blade and slits Cray's throat without a thought.

Murderers.

He looks to me. "They won't find you. I won't let them."

Taking the knife, I throw it into the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. When I am done, we make our way upstairs and change our blood-soaked clothing, throwing them into the bathtub. We gather our bags and make our way back down the stairs.

"What do we do?" I ask as we stand on the second floor.

"We have to disappear," Peeta says quietly. "No one can know that we existed in this house. If they knew, the police would find us."

"So that's it?" I cry out. "Cray gets away with what he's done to us?"

"It's the only way." Peeta looks into my eyes. "We have to start over."

"Why?"

Tears spill from his sweet blues and onto his thin cheeks.

"Because we're good enough. We've proven it."

* * *

We stand outside the house, hiding behind the thick trunk of the tree in Cray's backyard. The orange flames flicker inside Cray's bedroom from where we watch. It's only when we see the glass from the windows explode out do we leave the scene of our crime.

Every night, I pray that no one spotted the two teenagers climbing over the fence of Cray's backyard.

* * *

 _Five Years Later…_

I wish I could say that we had a happy ending.

In some ways, we did.

Peeta and I remain together, still very much in love and very much devoted.

We took the train out to the next District where we could start over. Peeta got a job with a construction company where he was paid under the table. Eventually, I started working on the ledger for the company, putting my advanced math skills to use.

Haymitch Abernathy, our manager, doesn't ask any questions. Even when he found out that we have no sort of identification or social security numbers. He did, however, find us someone who could give us identities—for a hefty price.

"Mellark," Peeta tells me with a smile. "I wrote in that my name is Mellark."

"You always did like their cakes," I respond as we sit in our small living room. "I didn't know what to put for my last name."

"Put 'Mellark'," he states, his eyes suddenly bashful. "I mean…never mind."

I climb onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. "I was wondering when we would make it official." Kissing him gently, I give him a bright smile. "This was a very intimate wedding."

A week later on our kitchen table, I find an open jewelry box with a thin gold band and a cake from Mellark Bakery that says, ' _Happy Wedding Day_ '.

"I told the guy at the front counter that we eloped a week ago and you always loved their cakes," Peeta tells me with a grin. "He suggested that we feed one another just like they do at actual weddings and then save a piece in the freezer so we can eat it on our anniversary next year."

Excitedly, I sit on his lap as he slips the ring on my finger. With the disposable fork that the bakery gave us, I scoop a piece and feed him our first bite of non-medicated cake.

* * *

Yes, we have good times.

But, we also have bad moments.

There are times when I wake up from my dreams screaming in terror. Sometimes, it is Peeta who wakes up in a feverish sleep, begging for Cray to leave him be. In-between sleep and dreams, I see blood on my hands and I know that every now and again, my husband will awaken seeing Cray's slit throat and open eyes.

When I am pregnant with our first child, I worry constantly that he or she will find out about our past. I begin to think of plans for what would happen if our child found out.

I couldn't explain to Peeta why I put a bed in the attic of the new house that we purchased just six months after Lila was born.

After that, I began to write it all down. If I didn't, I would lose it. Occasionally, Peeta will add things into my journal, writing or drawing pictures of the past.

We slowly grow together.

When Lila is three, Peeta and I take her to the local mall for her first pair of shoes for preschool. I am pregnant with our second child, a boy, who is due on Father's Day.

"Mommy, looky!" Lila's blue eyes gaze proudly at her new sneakers.

I smile indulgently at her enthusiasm. "Those are beautiful, sweetheart!"

Every day, Lila fills our lives with the sunshine we were deprived of in our attic home.

I watch her take off in a run across the store, her two dark braids swinging. Peeta follows our daughter, catching her easily in his strong arms and blowing raspberries into her chubby cheeks. He meets my gaze and winks, easily making my cheeks grow warm.

Even now, the fire has not tempered between us.

"Your daughter is adorable," one of the sales clerks remarks. Her blonde hair is neatly plaited in a braid and her blue eyes are bright, a similar shade as Lila's. "How old is she?"

"Three," I respond with a smile. "Lila is also very spunky for her age."

"Lila?" The girl tilts her head at me. "That's my mom's name!"

A sudden chill rushes through me and I quickly look at the girl's nametag: _Prim_.

"Are you okay?" Peeta comes rushing to my side. "You went pale."

I turn to give him a smile. "I must be tired. Your son is giving me trouble."

"Taking after his sister already," my husband responds.

Prim retrieves the shoebox on the floor. "I can ring you up for the shoes, Mrs…?"

"Mellark," I tell her in a hasty voice. "Mrs. Mellark."

Only when we reach our car do I tell Peeta in-between sobs that we have just come face to face with the sister that I couldn't remember.

* * *

December arrives.

Lila and Peeta decorate the Christmas tree as I nurse our six-month-old son, Owen, who is named after his godfather. My husband has been working for Mellark Bakery as a driver since Lila was two and has recently started training to become a pastry chef.

Owen is the son of the infamous Mr. Mellark who started the successful chain of bakeries. He is two years younger than Peeta and has a similar crooked smile to my husband.

Sometimes I wonder if they're related.

There's a knock on the door and I stand up after fixing my top. We're expecting Haymitch, Lila's godfather, for dinner and to help untangle the Christmas lights.

I am surprised when I find Prim at my doorstep.

Her eyes briefly go to Owen before meeting mine; they share a similar shade of blond.

"I remember you," she suddenly says in a choked voice. "I was three and Mom was looking for the shoes for my first day of preschool—just like you were with Lila. When she turned around, you were gone."

A hand goes to my shoulder and I turn to see Peeta behind me, Lila in his arms.

Whatever I decide, we are in this together.

After a moment, I make my decision and widen the door for Prim.

"Come in."

 **FIN.**


End file.
